


Sunlight

by dorianpervus



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Fingering, Ass Play, Ass to Mouth, Begging, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, M/M, PWP, Porn with Feelings, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 20:40:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11089509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorianpervus/pseuds/dorianpervus
Summary: Dorian wakes one morning still certain that his relationship with the Inquisitor must all be some far fetched dream. His worries are quickly lapsed when he realizes the Inquisitor has other plans for their morning together, and they do not involve moping.Just some good ole fashioned PWP, to be honest. No real plot to be gained from this one-shot.





	Sunlight

**Author's Note:**

> I dedicate this fic to that one guy on that one dating app I met months ago that asked me to eat his ass. I should have said yes. This one's for you.

These are not the sort of mornings Dorian’s familiar with.

The silk sheets, the slivers of sunbeams that creep through the spaces of the curtains, the swell of contentment after a restful sleep—these are the things he is accustomed to waking to. But the nearly too-warm weight of an arm pressed against his side, or the oddly comforting rise and fall of a chest against his back is entirely  _ not _ what he was expecting when he drew from sleep. His initial instinct is telling him he ought to make for the nearest window and get the blazes out of there. He’s remained here far too long—the rising sun makes that much obvious. It isn’t until he’s almost off the bed, dragging the man’s arm from his torso in the most subtle fashion possible (which isn’t subtle much at all considering his groggy state), that his mind manages to catch up with the rest of him, and he fully registers where he is.

Not only that, but also who he’s with.

And he’s half convinced it’s a dream because— _ no, no, any man with any sense at all would know what an inconvenience such involvement with a Vint would cause.  _

Dorian peers across the bed, over to the opposite end where his slumbering partner lies. But alas, the Inquisitor is no man, for he has no sense it would seem. He truly insisted they enter into the beginnings of a relationship then? He’s not certain that's a good thing, though. Many times have men promised him things they never planned to give. Good men, or so he thought. Men like the Inquisitor.

As soon as the accusation runs through his mind, however, a seed of guilt is planted within his chest— _ no, those men were not the Inquisitor, they were not Caine _ . He might be a lumbering southern heathen, but he’s a heathen with a polished moral compass, and that is worth more than any of the drivel up north that Dorian’s rolled around with for a night.

He really has no place over thinking right now, anyway. They’ve done this  _ before _ ; he’s stayed the night and woke beside the Inquisitor  _ before _ . Only a couple times, yes, but nothing about this is horrifically new.

The shock, it seems, has still managed to cling tight to his insecurities in spite of it. 

“You should wear sunlight more often,” Dorian hears a voice beside him droll gutturally. “It’s good on you.”

He looks over to where Caine’s face is mashed against a pillow, eyes attempting to blink open but eventually they relinquish their effort and just stay shut. Dorian casts a glance over himself, realizes there are bits of golden light against his skin, and a select few that beam down upon his gaze and blind him for a few moments before he moves from their trajectory.

“Perhaps if it would refrain from burning my eyes from their sockets, I’d be more commendable,” he says, relaxing onto his side. “Though I’d still pick it over Emprise Du Lion any day of the week, don’t be mistaken.”

“You must be a cold-hearted man not to enjoy some snowfall,” Caine says, still muffled by his place against the pillow, though he’s at least opened his eyes by this point. They shock Dorian every time—even still—just how brightly green they are, especially now with the light shining down on him.

“My heart might be cold,” Dorian says, “but at least the rest of me isn’t.”

Caine chuckles, all low and rough sounding, and it’s far too pleasing how easily Dorian can draw that sound from him. “That’s unfortunate; I was looking forward to warming you up this morning.”

Dorian quirks a brow, his interest suddenly captivated. A small rush of warmth prickles his back, travels up all the ridges of his spine at a smooth and taunting pace. He’s immediately distracted by lucid thoughts of the night before, and Caine’s implication becomes all the more inviting. He doesn’t imagine it would take much for him to be a heaving mess where the Lord Inquisitor is involved, which so happens to be the one and only sort of mess Dorian enjoys being.

Caine moves for the first time this morning, rolling over and making for the far end of the bed, “But if you’re already warm enough, I’ll just be on my way,”

Dorian rocks up suddenly, the sheets falling around him in a blaringly purposeful manner, “Now wait a moment, Inquisitor. It seems I’ve been exposed.” 

Caine pauses, turns, and peers over his shoulder toward Dorian, and laughter bubbles in his chest at the sight, “Oh Maker, it’s a good thing I’m here then, isn’t it?” And he turns, moves back across the bed toward Dorian, and kisses him. Deeply.

Very deeply.

And it’s effective too, because it catches Dorian so far off guard he doesn’t realize it when Caine reaches for the sheet, brings it back up the length of Dorian’s torso, and pulls back from the kiss—“There,” and quickly shuffles off the bed.

The mage sits there, mouth ajar, watching Caine pluck his discarded tunic from the floor, half-expecting him to surrender and come back and ravish him in apology. Except he doesn’t, and Dorian rolls his eyes at the prospect of having to get back off the bed and retrieve the Lord Inquisitor himself. He does it anyway, because his mind seems set on only one thing at the moment, and until he gets it, he doesn’t imagine he will be able to do much else. As soon as his feet touch the floor and carry him to Caine’s side, however, the man is on him in a blurry instant.

His hand clutches the back of Dorian’s neck, their lips pressed together unrelentingly, and he feels suddenly consumed by Caine as he wraps his arm about Dorian’s waist, pushing their bodies closer in the process. He can feel the heat of his skin through the thin layer of his newly-donned tunic, the thump of his heart, and the lingering scent of the night before. Caine’s fingers bleed into Dorian’s hair, grasping there faintly, insistently. He realizes he’s being herded backwards when his thighs touch the edge of the bed - so he pulls back, grasps Caine’s tunic, and uses his grip to turn the man around and push him onto the mattress instead.

The Inquisitor grins, looks up at Dorian with an expression he might test fate by describing as ‘adoring,’ and, of course, it causes all sorts of ridiculous and syrupy things to happen to his nerves; it's the variety of butterflies he thought only happened in Varric’s books. He attempts a quick and competent distraction, sliding onto Caine’s lap and grasping either side of his face, crashing his lips against the man’s in a way that would make any sane person’s mind turn to mush. He brings his teeth down gently upon Caine’s lip, pulls back and delves in again, using everything at his disposal in hopes of dampening the flutter in his stomach. A moan escapes the Inquisitor’s mouth when Dorian begins grinding down, only pressing against him enough to bring some semblance of pleasure. He does this for a time, still pressing their mouths together, until the man beneath him grows impatient, grasping Dorian’s backside and forcing their hips to grind far more unremittingly than before.

Caine uses his grip to bring the mage down onto the bed. Dorian huffs when his back meets the downy mattress, the silk sheets slipping luxuriously against his skin. Caine leans over him, kisses him softly, and the mage smirks, “Feeling forceful, are we?”

He presses his lips against Dorian’s throat, the warmth of his mouth sending a pleasing shudder down his spine, and the mage feels a hand smooth up his ribs. Caine pulls back slowly then, threads his fingers through Dorian’s hair offhandedly as he says, “Unless you’d rather I wasn’t.”

Dorian chuckles, “Oh, Lord Inquisitor, I most certainly hope you are.”

Caine nods deeply, a small smile written across his features—“As you wish,” and begins kissing a burning path down the length of Dorian’s stomach. He licks a line toward his navel, traces his hipbones teasingly with his thumbs as he grips the mage’s hips. And soon, he’s brushing his lips against the lining of the thin cotton trousers about his waist, and Dorian stretches in insinuation, waiting expectantly. Except, instead of ridding him of the fabric, Caine flips the mage over onto his front with unexpected ease, straddling his thighs. Dorian gasps, a bit winded from the sudden change in position, and practically squeals when Caine brings a hand down on his backside. The man chuckles above him, he can feel the rumble of it against his skin, and Dorian’s ears practically burn.

“This manhandling better be leading to  _ something _ ,” he snaps, though the bite of his words don’t sting quite as much as they would, if the Inquisitor would only stop skirting his hands up along his sides. This is all becoming rather excruciating, though, truthfully. His cock is shifting very unpleasantly between himself and the mattress, and not in any sort of rhythm that might offer him some relief.

Caine kisses the spot behind Dorian’s ear, and presses a few lighter ones down the back of his neck, “Maybe you should be a bit nicer and see what happens.”

Dorian swears he has some sort of witty remark to throw back before it gets lodged in his throat, as Caine begins grinding down on his ass slowly, insistently—and though it offers no pleasure beyond the simplicity of what it implies, it still manages to draw a groan from Dorian’s lips. He swallows, trying to heed the noises spilling from his mouth, but it hardly helps. His hand grasps at the sheets for a moment, before slithering down blindly and grasping Caine’s clothed thigh. His nails dig in, and he’s not exactly certain why he does it, only that he needs some sort of relief or he’s sure to go mad.

Caine pauses, and Dorian would laugh at how heavy both their breaths have become if only he could actually do so. The man lifts himself from Dorian, clutches his waistband and pulls the fabric from Dorian’s frame. The cold air makes his exposed skin prickle, and a shiver rattles him for a moment before warm hands come down on his hips, pulling him suddenly and forcefully onto his knees. Dorian quickly snatches a pillow from above him, brings it down to allow his head some place to rest. He knows what’s coming next—or, at the very least, he  _ thinks _ he does. Until he realizes Caine is still on the bed, not shuffling around the drawers trying to find the specific oil to use, and then he begins wondering just what exactly  _ is _ coming next.

The small swell of panic that jolts him is soothed quickly, however, as Caine presses his hands against Dorian’s thighs, caresses upward and grasps his ass, kneads appraisingly for a moment.

The real surprise comes when Caine bites down—tauntingly, just enough to tease—on the flesh there, tending to the bloom of pain with a kiss. And he doesn’t stop; his lips press hot and wet against his ass in an indistinct line, and Dorian can feel his ears, chest, cheeks heat with anticipation. Caine’s breath ghosts across his skin, and it practically burns where it settles as each huff of air is expelled with a small groan. It’s becoming unclear who exactly is enjoying this display more, Dorian or the Inquisitor himself. He must admit, he’s never been with a man who took such pleasure from administering it upon his partner—though he is certain he can find some way to withstand it—as that is the selfless thing to do, of course.

Caine pulls back, fingers still working the soft skin of Dorian’s ass as he says, “I’m going to put my mouth on you.”

_ He is—that— _

_ He’s not serious. _

“What?  _ Now? _ ” Dorian says in bafflement, though his words are breathless despite his desired tone.

The Inquisitor laughs, though it’s low and relaxed and puts Dorian to ease probably more than it should, “Preferably now, yes.”

Dorian doesn’t even realize he’s pushed back against him until his thighs brush against Caine’s torso. The man squeezes again, softly—likely in anticipation. Dorian’s heart thumps in his ears for a couple moments, then a few more before he finally scoffs—“At this rate, I’ll be 10 feet in the ground before you finally get to it.”

So he buries his face in the pillow, clutching the fabric in hopes of securing an anchor to keep from floating away. When he feels Caine spread him, he inhales deeply, anxiously, as the man grips his flesh firmly but not so harshly. The tension is making him melt, and he has to swallow when he feels hot breath against his skin. With the first wet sweep of his tongue, Dorian gasps, digs his fingers so violently into the pillow he fears he may tear it. The contact feels so foreign against the sensitive skin there, and the stubble that brushes against him makes for an intoxicating merger of pleasure. Caine does it again, only teasingly at first, just adding enough heat and pressure to signal what’s to come. He grips Dorian’s hips, brings him closer to his mouth and starts licking him with a notch more intensity, and the mage’s brows knot as something akin to a sob escapes him.

He’s not sure what to do with his hands, where the best purchase might be found. He deems the pillow too flimsy, the sheets too thin, the headboard too far, and all the while he has the Lord Inquisitor’s face quite literally in his ass. His untouched cock is practically throbbing now, dripping with absolute need, so he wrestles his arm from beneath him and brings it toward his length. The warm touch of skin on skin makes him all but weep with relief. But it’s only moments later that he feels a hand brush his away, ending the short but grateful moment of satisfaction for his cock, and he huffs in exasperation.

“Not yet,” is all Caine says before bringing his mouth back down, pressing his tongue beautifully and excruciatingly against his hole, making Dorian’s mind fog. He moans, in spite of his sinking pride, and tries to grasp his cock yet again. It’s useless, however, since before he can even get a solid grip upon himself, Caine is pulling his hand away.

“No.”

“You don’t understand,” Dorian gasps as Caine moves farther down, sweeping his tongue along his cock, his balls, his entrance, and the mage practically collapses with pleasure. He feels the muscles of his shoulders flex, every bit of his body unsure what to do with itself under such pleasurable scrutiny. Dorian gasps, “You’ll surely kill me.”

Caine takes a heavy breath when he comes back up and chuckles, “Would that be so bad?”

“To die with the Herald of Andraste like - this?” Dorian asks. “I suppose the resulting rumors  _ would _ be rather imaginative.”

“Certainly,” Caine murmurs, just as he wraps his own grasp about Dorian’s cock, and strokes slowly. The shock of fulfilled pleasure makes him gasp, press his face into the plush pillow before him. He prays the fabric muffles his distant mewl as the Inquisitor continues, “Though I would be so disconsolate without you. I don’t know if I could even keep on.”

He drags his hand up the same path his tongue had moments earlier, and Dorian has thrown all decency over the balcony as a loud moan tears from his throat at the action. He wants to say something, some sort of quip— _ Of course you’d be, I’m clearly the only good thing to come out of this mess, aren’t I?— _ but every nerve is on fire and everything is too much and too loud. He swallows, breathless, aching desperately but silently for some measure of release. When Caine’s thumb passes over his entrance—just a caress, hardly touching at all—the tension in his shoulders releases and he presses his ass closer to him, begging wordlessly for his touch. 

Then, he feels himself stretching, spreading as Caine eases one lonesome finger in, and Dorian pushes back even farther, yearning to be filled, to be evermore closer to his release. He works him, bringing his finger out and back again, offering him a phantom of the real thing and Dorian flexes and twitches with need, toes curling with impatience. He gasps, and just manages to moan—“Please,” in the most pitifully wanton tone he’s ever heard.

Caine acquiesces and adds another finger, curling the pair just enough to make Dorian’s back curl, his teeth biting the meatiest part of his hand to keep from shouting. The Inquisitor groans a pleased hum and says, with an inflection that sounds genuinely curious, “What do you want, Dorian?”

The mage makes a noise, something halfway between a scoff and a laugh, and tenses around Caine’s digits in reply. He curls his fingers again, and Dorian clutches the pillow in his arms, hugging it to his chest, doing anything he can to ground himself. He breathes brutal, heavy breaths, and whines into the sheets when Caine pulls away entirely, relieving Dorian of even the smallest amount of pleasure given.

Dorian hisses in exasperation, having half a mind to just turn over and get the job done himself.

“Tell me what you want, Dorian,” Caine says, and at this point he’s just a voice looming behind him—an incredibly intoxicating, breathy, gravelly voice—but a voice nonetheless. All Dorian can feel is the heat of his body, and the ghost of where his fingers once were.

A few moments, and Dorian has managed to align his thoughts enough for fairly reasonable speech. He looks over his shoulder as best he can in this position, with his head resting upon the mattress and his ass still in the air, and says, rather theatrically, “Would you like me to beg, Inquisitor?” 

Caine smiles (as much as he  _ can _ smile, that is, with how dazed he appears) and thinks a moment. Then, with a slight nod, he answers, “Yes.”

And Dorian can’t help the grin that breaks across his features. He moves—slowly, lest the Inquisitor deem his change of position to be unwarranted—and rises to his knees, turns so that he faces the man behind him. At this angle, he’s actually looking down on Caine, which is an intriguing reverse, he’ll admit. He also catches a glance at the significant bulge in his still-worn trousers, which also pleases him excessively.

With a hand upon the man’s shoulder, and the other placed over Dorian’s own heart, he begins, gravely, “Lord Inquisitor—“

“Hm?” Caine inquires with an amused raise of his brow.

“I beg of you—” he jolts suddenly when he feels a hand grasp his backside firmly, and from seemingly nowhere, though he still puts on a face, “—please, if you would be so gracious, fuck me into the mattress until I’m an absolute, panting, wreck of a man.”

Caine laughs, caresses Dorian’s sides absently with a feigning frown, “Less inquiring, more desperation.” 

Dorian sighs heavily. He steals himself, meditates over his options for a few beats and grasps the sides of Caine’s unsatisfied face, “Please, Inquisitor. I’ll let you do anything you’d like.” 

His voice is low and wavering, trying to mimic the inflection of an urgent man. He’ll admit, it's not difficult considering, “Just fuck me. Please, please.” 

And he kisses him, brutally, wrapping his arms about Caine’s neck. Dorian leans into him, pressing his weight fully into the man’s arms though he doesn't think either of them really care. When he pulls back, Caine's eyes glint with something like wonder, admiration, “Well, since you’ve asked so very nicely…”

And suddenly the mage is being pushed back, thrown against the sheets once again with a particularly disheveled and casually gorgeous Inquisitor atop him. He’s smiling, and Dorian’s smiling, and it isn’t until Caine is kissing the breath from him that he acknowledges the still-throbbing ache between his legs. He grabs the hem of the man’s tunic, pulls the atrocity over Caine’s shoulders and lets it loose somewhere across the room before capturing his lips again. He feels a gentle touch against his stomach, up the side of his ribs, toward the back of his head. And eventually, their embrace becomes far more relaxed; Caine kisses him slower, like he’s attempting to memorize every shift of Dorian’s mouth against his. His chest feels that familiar flutter again, the one that wasn’t meant for men like him, and he digs his fingers into Caine’s back, pulls him closer until their chests meet. He’s hoping the weight of the man above him might snuff out the tingle beneath his skin—but, of course, it only makes Dorian’s nerves go ablaze.

“You’re a busy man, Inquisitor,” Dorian murmurs against his lips, “Let’s not drag this on, shall we?”

Caine presses a kiss to his jaw, “You’re a true master of romance.”

Dorian chuckles, though his thoughts have taken a slightly dreadful detour, and he realizes that— _ yes, romance, of course he’d wish for romance. They’re in a relationship now, after all.  _ And he begins considering if he’s said the wrong thing, or perhaps just the right thing. Maybe Caine will believe this all a mistake and they can return to being cozy traveling companions like they’re supposed to be, like they should be.

Ah, but that would be far too easy.

Caine kisses Dorian again—deeply,  _ romantically— _ like one would usually kiss their lover, and rises back up, fingers plucking at laces. Soon, Caine’s trousers are dispensed, and they’re submitted to the same fate as the rest of their clothing. Dorian watches as he moves toward the side table ( _ finally _ ) and rummages around the drawer, quickly gathering what he’d sought and returning to his kneeling position between the mage’s knees. The man pops the cork off, empties part of the vial into his palm and lets the rest run along Dorian’s entrance. He spreads what’s in his hand upon his own cock, then Dorian’s, and eventually deems them sufficiently oiled as he grasps the mage’s waist and positions himself properly. He looks down at Dorian, and it takes a couple moments before he realizes Caine is looking for some sort of permission, and the mage rolls his eyes, “I apologize, have I not been clear enough for you?” 

With a sheepish drop of his head and a quick grin, Caine nods, “Fair enough.”

And so he presses forward, his cock slowly working into him, eyes locked with Dorian gaze almost entirely as he does. Caine pauses, breathes a moment, seems to calms himself with each breath. Though he stay frozen for long; as he enters further, taking his time, eventually filling Dorian as much as he can, he leans back down over him. The burn begins to settle as Caine stays in place, his cock pressing deep within him, allowing his muscles to relax and pain to warp into a pleasing pressure. Dorian’s breathing is heavy, ragged, and he scrambles to find purchase upon the Inquisitor’s back. Caine nuzzles his face into the crook of his neck, likely in some effort to temper himself again, to force himself from bucking into Dorian like some wild barbarian.

Rather unfortunate, that.

He lifts his thighs, wraps them about Caine’s waist and presses him closer, aching for some sort of friction. And soon enough, he breaks away from his spot within Dorian’s neck and begins to move, leisurely at first, pulling back and returning with a calming pace. It’s nice—at first—not having a man whose soul desire is to get the job done as efficiently as possible, even at the cost of Dorian’s comfort. Though it does become particularly maddening; his cock, filling him so completely only to have it taken away in such a vexatiously stagnant motion. He needs more, he wants more, he—

“Amatus, please,” Dorian wraps an arm around the man’s shoulders, presses his face beneath Caine’s chin. He registers—somewhere far away in the darkest depths of his judgement—what exactly he’s just said, and the sensible part of him begins panicking. But just as he starts to feel a hint of concern plague his mind, Caine begins fucking him at a far more tireless rate.

Dorian can feel his hips pound against his ass with each pass of his cock, and the building tension that flares deep in the pit of his stomach becomes brighter, more persistent. His senses feel fiery and soon he’s moaning continuously against Caine’s ear. With each thrust the man above him lets out a soft groan, and Dorian swears he hears the distant knock of wood against the wall, and the headboard shakes above his head. It’s reckless, his pace now—and each moment that races by is another moment for the pleasure to build, another moment closer to his long awaited release. His nails dig unabashed into the skin of Caine’s shoulder blades, urging him as best he can in his unreserved state. 

And he says it again—“Amatus,” because he can hardly think enough not to. He’s nearly forgotten all the other ways to refer to him—“Amatus” seems more fitting a denomination than anything else. Over and over he murmurs it against Caine’s lips, spills his moans into the man’s mouth as his lips press against his own. He’s so close, all he needs is a little more, just a enough to bring him over the edge.

Caine continues kissing him, swallows all his whimpers and groans, even as his hand slips between them and grasps Dorian’s length. He hardly bothers with teasing anymore—his grip is firm, and he begins moving across Dorian’s flesh at a ridiculous pace but it’s exactly what he needs. The mage’s brows knit together, his mouth falling open wordlessly as Caine pounds into him mercilessly now, both of them eager to reach their release. And all it takes it a few more thrusts, a couple more strokes from Caine’s grasp against his cock before he’s coming—calling out into the room, tearing his nails down the length of the man’s back. He spills his release over his torso, across Caine’s hand and stomach, but the pleasure is so white hot throughout his body he can’t find it in himself to care much at all.

He soon feels Caine’s release within him, and watches, fascinated at the man’s expression when he plummets—his tensed jaw, his closed eyes, his nose scrunched in pleasure.

Oddly endearing, truly.

Caine huffs but still finds a way to press the smallest of kisses upon Dorian’s mouth before easing off him, lying beside him as he attempts to calm his breaths. Dorian admits, he can’t really figure how to move anything below his neck at the moment, still working through the pleasant aftershocks. He looks over at Caine, sees the intense flush across his shoulders he hadn’t gotten a chance to catch before, the wild locks of his dark hair, and the attractive sheen of sweat across his form. He’s particularly gorgeous after sex; it is a true tragedy he is the only one who gets to witness it.

Caine finally looks over at him, catches his gaze and smiles an absolutely boyish grin, “Hey.”

Dorian chuckles, feeling far too lackadaisical to form a complete response. He absently pats his hand against Caine’s chest, and the man takes advantage of the action to thread their fingers together. Dorian smirks, sighs in contentment as he gazes up at the ceiling. He feels Caine’s fingers twist between his own, and warm lips pressing against his knuckles as his eyes drift close. His breaths even soon enough, and he’s pleased by the feel of the comforting body still lying next to him, 

**Author's Note:**

> First time writing like... fully fleshed out (lol) smut, believe it or not. Really just need more bossy bottom Dorian in my life lmao. 
> 
> Also that note at the beginning was sarcasm. Mostly. Follow me on tumblr: dorianpervus.tumblr.com


End file.
